But then there was the good stuff . . . being in his arms for one thing.
She clapped enthusiastically as the singer finished her last song.
Dinner was at the new Daniel Boulud restaurant and Carole was stunned when Monsieur Boulud greeted Jacques as if they were brothers. They were shown to a very nice table and Carole was frankly relieved that the menu she was given did not show prices. She was sure she would have a fit or be compelled to order a cup of tea and soda crackers.
Instead, she put down her menu and asked Jacques to order for her, telling him only that she didn’t like game dishes and felt too sorry for veal to ever eat it. The waiter returned with an appetizer that was sent by Daniel—small potato and apple pancakes with créme fraîche and a sliver of salmon topped with beads of Beluga caviar.
“I’m going to gain ten pounds,” Carole said.
“I wouldn’t worry. You look like the sort who doesn’t eat for days at a time.”
“Nerves. It sometimes happens.”
“So eat now and enjoy it. Tomorrow you won’t eat a thing.”
“I’ll be in Texas. You’re right. This client worries me, so I’ll forget to eat.”
“See? Now, if you don’t mind my asking, when will you return to New York?”
“For business or pleasure?”
“If it’s pleasure, make it very soon.”
There. His cards were on the table.
They chatted a bit about their schedules. She had some weekend meetings that couldn’t be switched around. He thought he might have some clients who would be in Washington soon. He might like to host a small cocktail party—would she be available as his companion and hostess? All very civilized and very adult. And while they didn’t agree on which weekend or even which city, they knew they would be together. Very soon, very often, very clear.
The check was paid—Carole thought it was a little over-the-top the way the waiter presented a box of Mont Blanc pens from which Jacques could select to sign his credit card slip. A second waiter brought her wrap, a little brocade opera coat she had found at a Georgetown estate sale. Outside, Jacques hailed a cab and asked the driver to take them to his building.
“What about Mr. Smith?”
“The emeralds are done,” Jacques said. “The princess is very happy.”
And Carole wasn’t unhappy.
When he opened the door to his apartment, they entered a marble foyer. He switched on the painted crystal chandelier and unlocked a door to the right.
“My office,” he said and turned on an overhead light. In the bath of moody golden light, she saw a rich tiger maple desk, a bendable arm lamp and a few exquisitely upholstered chairs scattered about in conversational settings. A display case in lacquered wood with velvet shelves contained a spectacular collection of loose stones and set pieces.
“Here, so you can see,” Jacques murmured and put on the halogen lights.
“It’s like seeing stars,” Carole cried.
Tucked inside the glass doors was a thin red light beam that indicated that the apparent fragility of the case was not to be believed.
“And here is my workroom.”
He opened a trompe l’oeil bookcase into a cool, dark room that was every bit as utilitarian as the office had been luxurious. They didn’t linger, though Carole was fascinated by the trays of uncut jewels. Diamonds were pieces of black rock as charismatic as charcoal. He led her back into the front foyer and up a princess staircase to a second-floor apartment. The living room alone was the size of the first floor of her house. A fire had been laid, and he explained that he had a houseman who generally left around ten o’clock. It was clear he had an interest in art, and he admitted with a soupçon of pride that the Matisse was an original but, he added modestly, not a very significant one. Still, Carole recognized the painting from her many art history classes.
She paced the room admiring his artwork, but also working through some anxiety. She had never “hopped” into bed with a man with so little forethought, except for a couple of very stupid incidents right after her divorce. Well, with Mitch, it hadn’t been long after they met, but then again, they had somehow committed themselves before their first kiss.
Am I turning into a tramp? Carole wondered.
Heavens, no. Thirty-seven-year-old professional women didn’t have enough time or energy to be tramps. This was maturity, going to bed with a man who was mature.
He came up behind her as she was studying a canvas of horses done in a very primitive style.
“Franz Marc,” he explained, kissing the back of her neck. “Finished just days before he left for the war.”
“And he died at Verdun. I look at him and Matisse,” Carole said, gesturing to the frothy floral still life on the other side of the wall, “and I think of all Marc could have accomplished had he lived as long as Matisse.”
“Are you thinking about that now?”
“Well, not really.”
He turned her around and kissed her lightly on the lips. His mouth was warm and Carole felt the instant message to her brain—he was very good in bed. Practiced and unhurried.
But why suddenly couldn’t she stop thinking about Mitch’s kisses? About Mitch’s ardor?
“Um, I need to tell you something,” she said.
He stepped away from her.
“No, you don’t need to do that,” she said. “But I just remembered something. I don’t have any . . . protection.”
“That isn’t a problem here.”
“What do you mean?”
He stepped away and went to a console table where a crystal bottle of cognac and two glasses had been laid. He poured two drinks.
“I can’t have children,” he said, and offered her a drink. He gestured to the love seat in front of the fireplace. They sat down. “I had measles when I was fifteen. My parents hadn’t been able to afford the vaccine. It was a bad case. The side effect—I am sterile.” He shrugged slightly.
“No kids?”
“Ever.”
He studied her face, which she struggled to keep as blank as possible.
“I’m sorry.”
“I used to be. But the blessing is that I don’t have to gamble. My life will continue exactly as this. Fine art. Good food. Creative work. It’s a good life. But it’s not what you want, is it?”
She startled. She thought back to her fantasy at the Algonquin.
“No,” she admitted. “No, no, I guess it’s not. At least, it’s not all I want.”
He took her glass.
“Carole, you should think very carefully about all you want.”
She sighed.
“It’s all right, Carole. I am not the one in pain right now. I’ve had a wonderful meal. I’ve had the most beautiful woman on my arm. I’ve enjoyed the conversation. What more does a man need?”
She knew what Mitch would say. Or at least his tone of voice. He’d talk about wanting to change things in Washington. Do something for veterans. Clean up corruption. Make a difference in the world. Oh, Mitch could go off on a tangent about what a man needs. And then, he’d have one last thing on his mind. Making a family. Loving a woman. Devoting himself to a wife and children.
“It’s late,” Jacques said softly. “Should I get you a cab?”
She nodded guiltily. When she began to take off the beautiful earrings, he touched her arm.
“You inspired a piece of jewelry that I will turn into a complete line,” he said. “The muse has to take the tribute offered to her.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure. And let me give you one more thing.”
He took her downstairs to his office and extracted a white velvet box from the drawer beneath the case.
“It’s a little strange,” Carole said, admiring its contents. “To accept this . . .”
“You don’t like it?”
“No, I love it. And he will, too. But as a gift . . .?”
“I understand. Please pay me the full price.”
“And that is?”
>
“One dollar. Each. And I know you’re good for it.”
“How did you know what I’m thinking of doing?”
“I’m a jeweler. It is my most important function to read the hearts of lovers and carve them into stone so that intentions are remembered and promises are kept. Now, let’s send you back to the club. You have a plane to catch tomorrow.”
“By the way, I’m very s—”
“Non, non.”
He found her opera coat and walked her downstairs. They found a cab on Sixth Avenue.
“Will I have the pleasure of reading about the beautiful earrings you wear at your wedding?” Jacques asked as he put her in the cab.
“I hope so. Oh, Lord, I hope so.”
Two days later, she returned to Washington with a contract from a Texas cowboy boot and rib joint that would FedEx both items anywhere in the country. Dana, in creative, would tie in a line of “Howdy Pardner” cards. Elyssa was thrilled and told her that the Cartier people had already e-mailed a set of ads to be featured on the Allheart.com pages.
“Are you coming in directly from the airport?” she asked. “Because we’ve got work piled up a mile high . . .”
“Sorry, I’ve got some stuff that can’t wait.”
“Does that ‘stuff’ include a certain U.S. senator?”
“Maybe.”
Elyssa laughed and said she’d see Carole whenever.
As the cabbie groused about the traffic, Carole dialed Mitch’s office.
“Is he in?” she asked Mabel.
“Carole? Here, I’ll put him on.”
“No, don’t. Just tell me whether he’ll be there in . . .” She looked out the window to the traffic. “Twenty minutes.”
“If you want him to be here, I’ll keep him. Do you want me to tell him you’re coming?”
“Let me surprise him.”
And I will certainly do that, she thought.
She thanked Mabel and put her phone back in her purse.
And then she extracted the white velvet box. Inside were two matching bands of gold, each encrusted with diamonds—on the inside of the band so that only the wearer and the wearer’s partner would know the special value and eternal quality of their promises.
“Oh, God, what if he says no?”
The cabbie let her off in front of the Capitol building. Just as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, the junior senator from New York hurried past, trailed by a retinue of Secret Service agents. Carole dashed up the steps and followed a tortuous trail of stairs and elevators and narrow hallways to Mitch’s office. Mabel, with her phone stuck to her ear, waved her on in. Carole knocked on the inner office door and stepped in as she heard Mitch’s welcome.
He was seated behind a mountain of paperwork. His reading glasses were propped on the end of his nose. He looked surprised and, at first, wary.
For the first time since she had left Jacques’s building, filled with forceful purpose, she felt nervous. Gone were all the pretty words she had practiced.
“Would you answer yes to a question I’m going to ask if I told you that I needed you to but was scared of asking you?”
Well that certainly was incoherent, Carole thought miserably.
He paused only an instant.
“Yes, I would,” he said. “And yes, I will.”
She leaned over his desk and kissed him long and full.
“Just for the record, what’s the question?”
“Only the most important one I’ve ever asked. Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” he said and came around the desk, pulling her into a big, wide embrace. “Yes and yes and yes and yes.”
They kissed. His kisses always set her on fire. His hands reached up under her sweater. Carole had missed this, very much missed this.
There was a knock on the door.
“Uh, Mr. Senator.”
Mitch pulled away.
“What is it, Todd?”
“You have a four-thirty committee meeting that the briefing papers—”
Mitch pulled away from Carole. She tried to pat her hair back in place. Mitch opened the door just a crack.
“Todd, I don’t want to be disturbed. Right, Mabel?”
“We’re closing up right now,” she said. “Come along, Todd, you can help me get these boxes to my car.”
“But, I . . .”
Mitch kicked the door shut.
“I’m going to try very hard to keep my priorities straight,” he said. “And you remind me if I forget.”
And then he kissed her again. She felt his hardness against her and she reached down to touch him.
“Here?” he asked. “But I don’t have anything with me.”
“You don’t need anything. I’m ready,” she said. “I’m really ready.”
And after Mabel had locked up the outer office, Carole and Mitch celebrated their new life together with nothing between them.
Taking Care of Business
KATHRYN SHAY
Chapter 1
“I don’t think you should jump into anything too fast.” Joe Monteigne chose his words carefully, attempting not to incite the lovely woman seated across from him, her teak desk between them like a shield. “I’d rather give a second interview to the other designers, in addition to Quest.”
Elyssa Wentworth arched a sculpted dark brow. “Oh, really. Why?” The condescending tone drove him wild. Of course, Elyssa herself drove him wild, both in the bedroom and the boardroom.
“I don’t like Parker Quest.”
“That’s it? You just don’t like him?” Her tone was incredulous, like a professor addressing a particularly obtuse student.
“Gut instinct, I guess.” Which was true. He just had a feeling . . .
“Joe, he’s the premier designer for ancillary products in DC. He’s worked with McDonald’s on Happy Meal toys, and Hallmark’s store gift promotion. Among many others.”
Joe shrugged, a gesture that was usually enough to quell anybody who questioned him.
Instead of being intimidated, she shook back her long, black hair and raised her chin defiantly. “Is there something specific you don’t like about Quest?”
His reputation as a ladies’ man . . . that country-boy appearance . . . how he looks at you as if you’re tonight’s dessert.
Of course, Joe couldn’t admit to any of that out loud. Madame CEO of Allheart.com, the biggest and best online greeting card company, would throw that pretty Baccarat paperweight he gave her for her thirty-seventh birthday right at his head. In truth, he himself couldn’t believe he had the objection to begin with.
So he hedged. Tugging at the cuffs of his starched white shirt, visible under his new Armani navy pinstripe, he said, “Actually, I’m not exactly sure why I don’t like him.”
Elyssa got a suspicious gleam in her eye. After being together only eight months, she knew him so well, and often had a sixth sense about what he was feeling. She rummaged for the three folders on the other candidates in the running for her business expansion and examined one, then each of the others. After a moment, she peered over at him. “The other firms are all run by women.” The Ice Queen was back.
Sometimes it turned him on, dealing with that veneer at work, then later, when they were just Joe and Elyssa, it excited him to make it melt. Today, her cool irked him. Like a lot of things had lately. He tried to shrug her comment off. “So, they’ll fit in better at Allheart.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She pushed back her chair and stood. The rust cashmere dress covered her from neck to wrists to knees but revealed every lovely curve. Its color accented the flush of pique that had risen to her cheeks. He watched her pace in the three-inch high Manolo Blahnik slingbacks. “Let me get this straight. You don’t want me to hire a man, even if he’s best for the job?”
“I never said I don’t want him because he’s a man.”
Well, I hadn’t actually said it, he thought sheepishly.
“I just don’t happen to think he’s the right
choice,” Joe hedged again. “At least not any better than Carrie Sandal or Tory Samson.” Now that was true.
“You’re letting our personal relationship interfere with business. I can’t believe it.”
Because he couldn’t believe it either, because he didn’t like it one bit, he snapped at her. “This has nothing to do with our personal relationship. You’re reading things into my objection because you’re overly sensitive about this whole issue of our personal versus professional life.”
The last eight months had been, to quote Dickens, the best and worst of times. After his venture capital firm, Highwire Industries, financed Elyssa’s company to reach and stay at the top of the web greeting card market, Joe had fallen fast and furious for the woman in charge. They’d tried like hell to resist their attraction to each other—it could easily be seen as a breach of business ethics—but eventually they’d given in to their feelings.
But they had taken grief from the industry because of their relationship, and it bothered Elyssa the most. So she’d drawn the lines around their separation of personal and professional lives in bold red marker.
When she said no more, he asked, “Elyssa, did you hear me?” She gazed out the window now, staring down at the canal. She loved the outdoors, and December in DC had not yet turned too cold to make her yearn for some fresh air.
Circling around, all business, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I heard you. But since part of the agreement Allheart has with Highwire is that I get final say on who I hire to work directly for me, this is really a moot point.”
That got his back up. Rising, he mirrored her folded-arm position. “I wouldn’t say that hiring a firm to research and design ancillary products is having someone work for you. It’s a whole new facet of the business. It requires Highwire’s approval.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
He tried a different tact. “I just don’t see why we can’t agree on someone else.”
“I want Parker Quest.”
He wished she’d chosen some other phrase. He was being unreasonable, blurring the lines, which was her hot button, but he couldn’t help it. Angry at himself, he straightened and stared at her. “Interview the others again,” he said calmly, turned, and walked out—feeling like an absolute idiot.
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